Zero Hour

Smolianoff — Constantin had always felt his true calling to be creator rather than seller. And in the back room of Constantin’s office space on the seventy-second floor of the Empire State Building, a space whose front room housed Urban Jewelry’s mail-order and Internet sales operation — the pet project of his eldest son, Mikail, who had earned a doctorate in business from Johns Hopkins University — his view of himself as a virtuoso of the sham was a conceit indulged with exacting, tirelessly unscrupulous dedication.

Among forgers of antique jewelry, Urbaniak strove to be the best of the very best.

Avram Hoffman had followed a loud trail of whispers (as if there were any such thing as quiet whispers in the trade) to Constantin many months ago, bringing with him a genuine Japanese pink pearl and a handful of brilliant-cut diamonds, and requesting the fabrication of a gold Edwardian hatpin on which to mount them and exponentially increase their already fair value.

Gathering from the frequency of his return visits, Urbaniak’s work had not disappointed. Indeed, the difficulty of Hoffman’s commissions had graduated by broad, bold leaps, as had his confidence that the hand of Urbaniak would render them to perfection… and there could have been no greater testament to this than the challenge he’d presented upon entering the office moments before.

The question before Urbaniak this time around — underscored by the photographs Hoffman had laid out for him — was whether Hoffman truly had what he’d claimed to have in his possession. With it, Urbaniak knew he could fashion Hoffman something memorable, a classic piece of work. Without it he could give him nothing.

“I must ask again about the sapphire, if you don’t mind,” he said, looking at Hoffman across his desk. “A twelve-point-eight-carat cabochon of first quality is noteworthy. An oval of that size from the old mines of Kashmir would be fabulous. A sensational rarity…”

“And why shouldn’t a broker who is the son and nephew of brokers attain the fabulous and sensational?” Hoffman said. “Or don’t you believe even the man in the middle can exceed his origins?”

Urbaniak shook his head, a bit confused over his snappish tone.

“Don’t forget, you are talking to one who has done just that,” he said. “In the USSR, I was a factory worker. Here, a shopkeeper for many years.” He paused. “No insult was implied, and none should be taken. I only want to be sure we understand each other before moving ahead.”

“Then consider yourself assured, though I don’t see any reason it should matter to you.”

Urbaniak shrugged.

“We can start with pride,” he said. “You know my policy, Avram. I am not a peddler of glorified costume jewelry. Of crap. What leaves my workshop must be faithful to the past work that inspires it in all but age.”

Hoffman was quiet a moment, his lips tight, his face suddenly flushing above the line of his beard.

“Avram, are you all right?”

“Yes,” Avram said, sounding short of breath. “Fine.”

“You’re positive? I can get you a glass of water…”

Avram waved him off, inhaled, exhaled.

“Never mind,” he said. “The stone I’m providing will be a bona fide Kashmir. With certifications.”

Urbaniak had noticed the flush spreading to Avram’s neck and forehead in little red blotches, but given his touchiness thought it be best to refrain from further comment. He instead considered his words in silence, inspecting the pictures of the sapphire ring spread out on his desk.

“If that’s what it is,” he said at length, “that’s what it is.”

“Will you be able to design a setting based on my photos?”

Urbaniak looked at him.

“I’ve been an admirer of Raymond Yard jewelry for a very long time and would be eager for the opportunity to”—he paused to choose the appropriate phrase—“adapt one of his pieces. Yard was among the greatest ever, an artist without peer among his contemporaries of the Deco period… and, speaking of men who are able to exceed humble beginnings, the son of a rail worker who became friend and advisor to the wealthy. His salon’s clientele was a who’s who of old-money society, and of the New York elite in particular. The Vanderbilts, the Goulds, the Beekmans and Astors… and of course the Rockefellers.” Another pause. “It was for John D. Rockefeller Junior that he arranged the purchase of what may be the world’s most famous sapphire from the Nizam of Hyderabad. A sixty- six carat stone that once shone atop the ring in these photos you’ve brought me, and it would later be remounted onto brooches by both Rockefeller’s first and second wives — and after Yard died, set into an inferior ring at the fancy of a son of Raymond Yard’s colleague, the gem dealer Esmerian. When it finally passed into the anonymity of a private collection several years ago, I believe the blue commanded a record auction price of three million dollars.”

Avram had opened the collar button of his shirt under his necktie and taken more deep breaths.

“In excess of that sum,” he said. “Constantin, let me ask you something now. Suppose another stone was included in Rockefeller’s acquisition from the Indian Maharajah. Much smaller than the first — just under thirteen carats — but from the same source, and of comparable excellence. Then suppose Rockefeller had asked Yard to set it in a platinum ring for a woman other than his wife. A very young, very beautiful ingenue of the Broadway stage who kept her relationship with him discreet, and in her commendable discretion never revealed the identity of the gentleman who gifted the ring to her, or left documentation of its provenance… though it was styled after these photographs I’ve copied and brought you from a Christie’s auction catalogue, and did bear the engraved letter ‘Y’ that was Yard’s signature.” Avram sat forward in his chair. “Do you follow me so far?”

Urbaniak met his gaze with interest, nodded.

“You present an engrossing history.”

“I’ve been working hard to get the details right,” Hoffman said with a conspiratorial glance.

Urbaniak gave another nod. Perhaps working too hard for his own well-being, he mused. Hoffman’s breathing and color had gradually returned to normal, but he still looked tired and overwound.

“Jumping ahead,” Hoffman went on now, “let us say this actress married after Rockefeller’s death, keeping her intimate friendship with him secret throughout her lifetime, bequeathing the ring to her own legitimate heirs. That it passed from child to grandchild, grandchild to great-grandchild, and so forth. And that it eventually fell to a beneficiary of some current social prominence who wishes to sell it without opening dusty boxes of scandal, and has engaged a broker like myself to do that while leaving the ring’s owner unnamed.” He regarded Urbaniak across the table. “My question to you, a supreme craftsman, is this: would the ring’s unique qualities be enough to satisfy a prospective buyer, and whoever he or she may hire to appraise it, that it is an authentic Raymond Yard?”

Urbaniak was unhesitating in his answer.

“The accomplishment of an expert hand always will be recognized by an expert eye,” he said. “And, with or without documents, command a suitable price from lovers of beautiful finery.”

Hoffman remained silent for a minute. Then he nodded and settled back in his chair, finally seeming to relax a little.

“Constantin,” he said, “I’m going to propose that you make me something beautiful and fine.”

* * *

Moments after leaving Urbaniak’s office, Avram stood on the corner of 33rd Street and Fifth Avenue, trying not to draw attention from passersby, feeling more than a bit embarrassed by his weakness as he leaned against the metal stanchion of a streetlight and caught his breath.

It had been so close up there with the jeweler, he thought. So airless. The seeming lack of oxygen had stuffed his head, made his chest feel as if it were bound tight with leather straps.

Avram swooped down mouthful after mouthful of cold air, and soon enough thought he felt better — certainly well enough to finish the rest of his business.

He reached into his coat for his cell phone and sent the brief e-mail stored in its memory to Lathrop, then lifted the briefcase he’d set down on the pavement between his feet.

Now he only needed to hurry over to the bank while waiting for his callback.

* * *

“You’re sure you don’t want to head up to see Ruiz with us?” Derek Glenn asked Ricci. He raised his shoulders against an explosive gust of wind. “Whatever might be rotten at Kiran, we can’t forget we came here to find Patrick Sullivan.”

Ricci was silent. Along with Glenn and Noriko Cousins, he was standing on Hudson Street outside Sword